No Signal
by Hoperise
Summary: Holt's perspective on the bombing, its aftermath, and his brief foray into comic book writing. (Companion piece to Out of Range.)


No Signal

Setting: During Peralta's time undercover. Takes place concurrently with Out of Range.

Summary: Companion piece to Out of Range. Holt's perspective on the bombing, its aftermath, and his brief foray into comic book writing.

Diaz burst into his office without knocking. "Captain, we got a report from the tip line. Some mobster guys are selling kids out of the old Studebaker factory by the waterfront."

"Did the tipster give us anything actionable?" Holt leaned forward, folding his hands.

She dropped her hastily-scrawled notes on his desk. "Well, they gave a pretty good description of a guy going in to bomb the place."

"Lead with that part next time, Diaz." Holt sent her and Sergeant Jeffords to investigate immediately, then phoned into dispatch to send in backup. Boyle and Santiago were already out on a call, so he had dispatch radio the same message over to them immediately.

Reports were starting to come in of smoke seen along the industrial waterfront. The Nine Nine edged out other precincts by a nose with more information, so Holt found himself in charge of the command center. This was where he thrived, the calm eye of a tornado of chaos.

Until the FBI got wind of the bust and swept in to claim jurisdiction. Ostensibly, the bust had some connection to a larger trafficking case the Bureau already had a hand in - though Holt's squad knew better.

Admittedly, Holt was somewhat relieved to see Special Agent Marx in the building. He'd assumed the worst when he heard 'mobsters' and 'bomb,' but if this had been planned in advance, perhaps Peralta would come out on the other side of this, unscathed.

Then he caught a glimpse of Marx' face. That wasn't the smug look of a man in control or the satisfaction of a successful op.

No, that was the familiar fury of a man in the midst of a Peralta-induced apoplectic fit.

Marx informed him in no uncertain terms that this bust would not interfere with the ongoing investigation of the Iannucci family. All credible charges would become part of the federal case, and if any of the members of his squad attempted to contact Peralta or interfere with his operation in any way, Marx would personally see that they were charged with obstruction.

Around that time, Boyle escorted a man into the bullpen who claimed to be the tipster. The man was rail-skinny and sweating, but his voice was steady as he clutched a stack of files to his chest.

His name was Tony Vongola. He was ready to confess to the whole bombing. He'd tell the officers how he did it, why he did it, and how he knew the Iannuccis were selling kids out of the Studebaker factory - in exchange for witness protection for his family.

Holt looked over at the FBI agent. Marx purpled.

Gesturing toward Vongola, Holt deadpanned, "Since you've been so courteous to my department, would you care to speak with this gentleman?"

Steaming, Marx strode into the captain's office to call his superiors. Boyle took Vongola to be processed.

Holt had demanded early on that any children found at the scene be sent to a different facility. CPS was already heading over to the 83rd Precinct to speak with the children there. Honestly, the evidence that Vongola had, while foundational, would seem supplementary in combination with the testimony of at least a dozen juveniles and their families.

The holding cells on three floors were already filling up with sooty, sweaty Iannuccis bellowing about their innocence.

And then there was Peralta.

Never one to pass up the opportunity to make a scene, Peralta was shouting and swearing with the best of them. A ridiculous earring sparkled on his left ear. Fortunately for his career as an undercover informant, his acting had improved since leaving the precinct four months ago screaming about bacon. He seemed genuinely furious - but his performance would have been more fierce if he hadn't needed to stop every few breaths to cough.

Peralta tore and twisted in the Sergeant's grip, bucking so fiercely that Holt was sure he'd strain something. His appearance was frightful. The sclera of his right eye was full of blood, the other rimmed with red from smoke exposure. The right side of his face was marred with a deep purple bruise, mottled with yellow and brown about the edges. It was a few days old, then. His voice was ragged, his skin and clothing streaked with soot and singed in places. He held nothing back, spitting curses about Jeffords' family with such venom that Holt could see the hurt flickering across the Sergeant's face.

Taking Peralta's tantrum to mean that he really didn't want to stay in holding with the rest of the Iannucci's, Holt caught Jeffords' eye and gave him a nod. The Sergeant nodded back and starting hauling him down to interrogation.

Marx came out of Holt's office, his composure intact. "Have your clowns brought Peralta in yet?"

The skin around Holt's lips tightened infinitesimally. "They were delayed along the way. We'll let you know when he's in. Detective Boyle is getting Vongola set up in Interrogation One, if you're ready."

He took the lengthy route escorting the FBI agent down to interrogation. Jeffords was closing the door behind himself when they approached. He folded his hands behind his back and opened his mouth to say something, but Holt gave a minute shake of his head before a word could get out.

Only after the door to Interrogation One was shut and Holt had made sure that Boyle was observing from the other side of the glass did Holt move on. He locked Interrogation Two and beckoned Jeffords into connected observation room.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Jeffords said, shifting from one foot to the other uneasily.

Holt sat down and made sure the recording equipment in the room was shut off. "Granted."

"That FBI guy is a prick."

Releasing an amused breath from his nose, Holt raised his eyebrows. "I wouldn't repeat that observation in the bullpen, but it seems... accurate." He folded his hands on the table, looking through the one-way glass. Peralta looked even worse in the pale fluorescent lights of the interrogation room. He'd slumped bonelessly against the table, eyes shut and head lolling freely. He seemed to be favoring his side.

Holt swiveled in his chair and was about to ask Jeffords for his report when he noticed something odd. His hands were streaked with red. "Are you injured, Sergeant?"

Jeffords grimaced. "No, sir. This is Peralta's. There's a cut on his shoulder - it looked pretty shallow, but he wasn't making it easy on himself on the way over."

"Report, Sergeant." Holt stated, his brow furrowing slightly. He looked through the glass again. There was indeed a shiny patch on the shoulder of Peralta's black velvet tracksuit. Peralta's breathing had evened out - it looked like he was sleeping. Holt wondered what the hell was happening to his detective to have him run so ragged.

"CPS rounded up nineteen kids at the scene. The oldest one was fifteen. Some of them were runaways, some were picked up off the streets, and a few might have been brought from overseas. The Fire Marshall found Peralta clearing the basement of the last of 'em and pulled him out. I couldn't give him any special treatment, so I just arrested him and brought him down with the rest." Jeffords said, glancing through the glass with something between pity and admiration.

"A wise decision." Holt affirmed. He wasn't usually so quick to dispense praise, but he had to admit that the sudden reappearance of his detective had him rattled.

Jeffords hesitated a moment, then spoke up. "Sir, did you want me to inform Agent Marx that Peralta is in here?"

His mouth tightened once more. He was treading a fine line, meddling with a federal investigation without attempting to appear like it. Yet if any blame were to came from this, it should rightly fall on him. "Agent Marx appears busy at the moment. I will personally inform him of Peralta's presence as soon as he has a free moment." He swiveled back to face Jeffords, his expression blank. "Clean yourself up, Sergeant. Please don't mention any of this to the squad. If they ask questions, feel free to remind them that interfering with a federal investigation is a crime."

"Sir?"

"I will be supervising Peralta's debriefing from here. Should you need me, you may contact me on my cell phone." Holt settled into the chair and gave Jeffords a pointed look, carefully annunciating his words. "Don't need me. You're dismissed."

He passed the time responding to emails on his phone, using one of the computers handy to file a few reports. Holt had Gina reschedule the meetings he'd missed in light of the day's crisis.

Peralta slept the whole time.

Two and a half hours later, Marx stormed into the observation room.

"What is the meaning of this?" The agent snapped, gesturing toward the window.

Rising to his feet, Holt schooled his expression into something neutral. "Ah, Agent Marx. One of my detectives brought Peralta in. I was waiting until you had finished with the suspect to inform you of his arrival."

Marx scoffed, hoisting a fat stack of files from one arm to the other. "Real cute, captain. You understand that interfering with a federal investigation is-"

"-punishable by law, yes, of course. No one has seen or spoken to Peralta since he was detained. I saw to it myself." Holt replied.

Even the testy agent couldn't object to that. He scowled nonetheless. "They'd better not have. Are you going to unlock the door, or what?"

Holt nodded, removing his keys from his pocket. "Certainly. There is one thing, Agent."

Marx paused.

"I'd like Peralta to see a medic in the infirmary before he leaves. He appears to be injured, and I'm sure you want your informant to be in top condition." Holt explained, trying to appeal to the agent's rationality.

Marx snorted and shook his head. "If he isn't charged with anything, he doesn't get the benefit of police resources. Special treatment would reflect badly on his cover. That asshole got himself into this mess; as far as I'm concerned, he can clean up his own damn self."

A muscle tensed in Holt's jaw. "That 'asshole' is one of my detectives, and I'll thank you to treat him with such respect."

"Thanks to your detectives, there's still a mole in your department. You can stay and watch, but none of this gets recorded. Unless you want Peralta dead in an alley somewhere." He raised his free hand, as if to say, 'suit yourself.'

Engaging further seemed counterproductive. Holt exited the room and unlocked the door for Marx, then returned to his position behind the observation window.

Holt was unsure which surprised him more: the defiance that Peralta showed Marx, or the outright hostility that the agent displayed towards him. Their working relationship made his rivalry with Captain Wuntch seem almost civil.

Marx was determined to get Peralta to incriminate himself, convinced that Peralta had masterminded a rogue plot to take down the Iannucci's human trafficking ring before his operation was complete. It seemed unlikely that Peralta would be willing or capable of pulling off such a job single-handed, but the evidence Vongola had brought in was admittedly convenient.

When Marx provoked Peralta about compromising his cover, Holt thought the detective actually might strike him. He could sympathize with Peralta's distress over letting juveniles slip through his fingers to protect his identity, but he had signed on to do more than rescue a handful of children. Constructing an elaborate plot to take down one node in the larger hub of the Iannucci's network seemed like an irrational response.

Holt was missing a piece of the puzzle, and it bothered him.

Marx' voices came over the intercom. "What's your problem, Peralta? Is this personal? Is this about the funeral?"

Peralta sat back defensively, refusing to maintain eye contact with the agent. "No, it's not about the fucking funeral. Why would I be pissed that you made me keep my mom's death a secret? Why would something like that bother me?"

Sitting back in his own chair, Holt released a slow breath.

There it was. The missing piece. Peralta had lost the only member of his family who had never abandoned him, and he'd been completely isolated from any kind of support in his mourning.

This wasn't reckless stupidity. This was grief-driven rage.

He watched Peralta's body language shift from defiant to defensive and back to arrogance.

He'd recommended Peralta for the undercover mission based on the merit of his skill as a detective and his enthusiasm for acting, but Holt was troubled that the stress of isolation was getting to him.

All detectives - indeed, all people - needed something to motivate them to optimal performance. Boyle needed peer affirmation. Diaz needed to be trusted. Santiago needed competition. Jeffords needed his leadership suppported. Scully and Hitchcock needed respect (and help from a couple different types of medical professionals).

Peralta needed attention from a positive male role model. He needed to let off some steam every once in a while. He needed his friends. Cut off from all of that, Holt was concerned he'd do something stupid and get himself killed.

Across the glass, Marx leaned in and said something menacing that the microphone couldn't pick up.

Peralta seemed unconcerned. He chuckled dismissively and made a filthy comment.

Marx pressed further, gesturing to the glass and revealed Holt's presence.

And then something very peculiar happened. Peralta's whole demeanor shifted. Gone was the expression of defiance and repulsion. It was replaced by something like fear... or shame. He attempted to sit up and grimaced. He settled for an awkward position, half-leaning against the arm of his chair.

He watched the agent systematically degrade and humiliate one of his best detectives while he was too injured to sit up straight. Holt's ability to make rational decisions splintered.

Marx left the room shortly after, presumably to darken another doorstep.

A muscle worked in Peralta's jaw as he fought for control, not wanting to show weakness.

Holt recited the criminal code to distract himself. _Anyone who willfully endeavored to obstruct, delay, or prevent the communication of information relating to a violation of any criminal statute of the United States by any person to a criminal investigator shall be fined or imprisoned not more than five years, or both._

He thought about Kevin, what the impact of being brought up on charges would have on his marriage, on the career he'd worked so hard for. He thought about the rest of the squad.

Then Holt leaned over and pressed the intercom button anyways.

"Don't mess this up, Peralta." He said, wishing he could say so much more. Wishing that he could surround the man with the camaraderie of his squad for just a few seconds, to impart him with the strength to carry on.

Peralta attempted to relax. Rested his head on the table before him. "I'm trying." He acknowledged.

Holt's hand moved before he'd come up with the proper words for a subject for which there were no words. He clicked the intercom to life again.

"I'm sorry to hear about your mother." Holt said. He wished that someone in the history of humanity had come up with a better way to convey that sentiment, but he offered what he could.

In the face of that trite platitude, Peralta crumpled. When he'd composed himself enough to reply, his voice was ragged.

"Thanks."

Holt brought his phone out of his pocket, texting Kevin. Asked if he knew any art students that wanted to make a couple hundred dollars, and could they meet with him tonight?

Three days later, everyone in Peralta's building received a free two-month trial subscription to a new comic series, _The Adventures of Barley and Gimes_.

The volume was designed to deflect attention away from the intended target of their messages. Holt wrote the plot, Kevin consulted on the dialogue, and a harried art major drew the panels. He ensured that the members of the fictional LAPD precinct looked nothing like their counterparts on the squad, but various personal anecdotes clued in the insightful reader to the identity of each character.

Through the medium of comic books, Holt kept Peralta informed to the goings-on of his friends. Reminded him that there was a world outside where he was cared about, where people were waiting for him to return.

Two months later, the art student told him he'd received numerous inquiries for subscriptions to an ongoing series. Holt was confused. Who would be interested in the personal lives of police detectives?

Nevertheless, he informed Peralta at his welcome-back party that there was a position open as lead writer for _The Adventures of Barley and Gimes_ , if he was interested.

Peralta laughed. Said he'd consider it.

 **notes.**

Now picture the epic hug between Jake and Holt at the beginning of 'Undercover'. "I've missed us."

SHIT. You guys. I thought I was done at the end of the third chapter of Out of Range. But the plot bunnies got away from me, and before I knew it I had another two thousand words written.

There's two pieces left from this point, unless I get inspiration for another (I'm open to suggestions. I'm pretty suggestible). I'm off to appease the muse. Hopefully if I get on her good side, she'll return in time to help me with my Pushing Daisies fic.

Thanks for your reviews and favorites - I'm so glad that we've all fallen down this Jake's-undercover-mission shaped hole together.

 **Don't write the story. Live the story.**


End file.
